


Filling the Void

by Rehfan



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Armpit Kink, Ass Play, Blow Jobs, Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Bruises, Dreams and Nightmares, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Smut, First Kiss, First Time, Language Kink, M/M, Marking, Rimming, Sleepy Cuddles, Stiles Has Nightmares, Stiles whump, mild breathplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-19
Updated: 2015-02-25
Packaged: 2018-03-13 18:10:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3391283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rehfan/pseuds/Rehfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Nogitsune has been defeated. Stiles knows that.<br/>Now if he could only find a way to get rid of the nightmares.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> MANY THANKS to ulliawen for all her help with my Polish translations!
> 
> And NOW available in Russian!  
> https://ficbook.net/readfic/3875549  
> SO MANY thanks to the talented and wonderful gutentag for their generosity and time!

He knew that the Nogitsune was defeated. He saw it crack and careen over into a pile of dust and nothing. Granted, that happened just before he fainted, but still – it was gone. It didn’t explain why he’s still having nightmares.

Sometimes they were nightmares inside nightmares and it would freak him out so damn much that he felt the need not to be in his own house. Even though he cleared everything away, all the strings and articles, all the photographs and statistics, it just wasn’t cozy like it used to be. The extra-thick padding his dad bought for the mattress wasn’t doing any good; he could still feel where the scissors were embedded into his mattress.

The straw that broke the camel’s back was when he dreamt of the Nogitsune planting those scissors inside his temple as he laid there unable to move, shout, or do anything to save himself. It took his dad three whole minutes of holding him fast in his arms to wake him and convince him that he was actually awake. That was the night he wet the bed. It was humiliating.

“I’m sorry, dad,” said Stiles around a mouthful of cereal the next morning.

“Don’t worry about it, Stiles,” he said. “You’ve been through hell. It’s understandable that these nightmares will crop up for a while.”

Stiles stared at the bowl, milk making each cornflake soggier by the second. “I hate it.” His voice was very small. He didn’t just mean the nightmares. He hated everything he had put his dad through. He hated that there were medical bills headed their way that they may not be able to handle. He hated that he was the target for the Nogitsune – not that he had asked for that dubious distinction. He hated that he had almost driven Lydia insane – or rather the monster with his face had. He hated that his mother wasn’t there to share his father’s concerns and hold her son in the night, to soothe his brow and kiss all the nightmares away. He stared at his breakfast, hating it too.

A warm hand moved over his slumped shoulders. “Stiles,” his father said softly, “we’ll get through this. It’ll just take time, son. Give yourself time. Allison hasn’t been gone a week now. You need to grieve her passing and allow yourself some forgiveness. None of this was your fault.” A soft kiss landed on his head. “I’ll see you tonight after school? It’s your turn to make dinner. Don’t leave your old man hanging, huh?”

Stiles managed half a smile at that. “Turkey burgers it is,” he said. He gathered what hope he could from the love of his father and gave him a smile in exchange. It didn’t quite reach his eyes. “See you tonight. Love you, dad.”

“Love you too, son,” he said and gave his shoulder a small squeeze before leaving.

As the sound of the front door reached his ears, Stiles felt that wretched emptiness again. It wasn’t the same as the void feeling he had with the separating of the Nogitsune, the sickly sap on his strength and will. This was different. It was a hole in his heart. He could still feel his heart beating, pushing blood to all his vital organs, feeding his body, restoring his health hour by hour, day by day. He knew he would survive the attack on his mind and soul and he knew his dad was right: it would all take time. But there was a small corner of his mind occupied with the what-ifs of the whole situation:

_What if it didn’t get better?_

_What if he was invaded again?_

_What if he killed people this time?_

_What if one of those people was someone he loved?_

_What if he killed his own dad?_

“Stiles!” called Scott from the front door. Stiles shook his head and wiped the back of his hand against his face. He had been crying and hadn’t noticed. Scott came into the kitchen wearing a sad smile. He was still grieving Allison too. That was no surprise, considering their history. He came up short when he saw his best friend. “Hey man,” he said. “We’ve got to go, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said. The school year was almost over and they had more pressure on them than before. Coach was on a rampage because here they were on the cusp of semi-final greatness and they had both been too preoccupied with Stiles’ survival and a certain trickster demon to focus on the game – nevermind the inconvenience of being checked into a mental institution for a grand total of three days before becoming possessed. And so, for all these reasons and because the universe was a cruel bitch, Stiles was failing physics and history. He had to pass the finals in order to move on. Not to mention the fact that he hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in an age and a half. He took a breath and scooped up his books from the table, put his dish in the sink to soak, and followed Scott out into the day.

 

~080~

 

“Mr. Stilinski,” called Mr. Robinson. “Are you going to tell me the answer or are you going to just sleep through the entirety of my class?”

Stiles jerked awake and wiped his mouth. He caught Kira’s panicked look as her dark eyes shifted from him to the physics teacher and back again. “What?” he said. A giggle rippled through the classroom.

Mr. Robinson sighed, “Mr. Stilinski, do I have to give you detention this late in the school year? Please say I don’t. I hate the paperwork involved. And you’ll hate the assignment I’ll give you while you’re here. Trust me.” The teacher’s hard eyes were on him as he straightened in his chair.

“Sorry, Mr. Robinson, sir,” said Stiles, clearing the cobwebs from his mind with a hard shake to the head. “What- um…What was the question?” He squinted a pained expression at the teacher as though the man were going to actually hit him. “Sir?” he added for good measure.

Mr. Robinson closed his eyes for a long moment and took another world-weary breath. “Will a shorter fulcrum create more or less leverage?”

“Uh….” His eyes darted to Kira who was helpfully mouthing the word “more”. “More! More leverage… sir. Shorter fulcrums create more leverage.”

“Are you sure that Miss Yukimura is correct?”

Kira bowed her head immediately and physically attempted to hide behind the student in front of her.

Stiles gave her a quick forlorn glance. “Uh, well that all depends on her grades in this class,” he joked. There was another ripple of laughter from almost everyone except Kira and Mr. Harrison. Stiles swallowed hard. “I think she’s correct, sir,” said Stiles in a chastised and conciliatory tone.

“You’re lucky she is,” said Mr. Robinson. “Stay awake, Mr. Stilinski. For the sake of your own grades. And my sanity. Please.” He turned back to the chalkboard example and his lesson.

“Sure thing,” said Stiles under his breath. He glanced at Kira and said: “Sorry.”

She shrugged. “You’re not sleeping at home?” she asked as quietly as she dared.

“Not as such, no,” he admitted. “Last night was rougher than normal.”

“The Nogitsune?” she asked. Stiles nodded and pretended at attentive note-taking.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Me too,” he said and the subject was dropped as they were attacked by a last-minute pop quiz. “Well isn’t this just the cherry on top,” he mumbled as he stared at the three equations in front of him. There was no way he was passing. No freakin’ way.

 

~080~

 

The nightmares didn’t have a pattern. They were just there. He tried to explain it to Scott, to Kira, to Lydia, to everyone. Even Deaton was defeated on this one. “Stiles,” he said helplessly in that entirely unhelpful way, “I’m technically a veterinarian. I have no jurisdiction over normal human people. I suggest seeking proper medical attention from a qualified professional human doctor. Sorry.”

Stiles sighed as he sat in front of the check-in desk at the hospital. “Stiles, honey,” said Mrs. McCall, concern furrowing her brow, “what’s wrong?” She sat next to him on the bench as people milled past them.

“I can’t sleep,” he confessed. “And when I do, I have all kinds of nightmares. Crazy panic-inducing, bladder incontinence-creating, terrible, horrible, nightmares that take me minutes to wake up from.”

“Wow… well,” she said thoughtfully. “We could arrange for a sleep study-“

“No,” he said. “I know my dad’s struggling with the idea of paying off an MRI scan, so this is just you and me talking. I mean, should I get a sleep aid or something?”

“No,” she said. “I wouldn’t. It might make your nightmares worse-“

“Worse?”

She nodded and continued: “-and it could make you even harder to wake up. They aren’t a good idea right now.”

“Just like Eichen House,” he muttered.

“What are you talking about?” she asked. She rubbed his back soothingly and for a moment he enjoyed her “mom-ing” him.

“At Eichen House, Deaton’s sister, Marin Morrell, told me not to sleep. To avoid falling asleep. If I fell asleep, the Nogitsune would get to me and then I would be forced to make a choice. And I made that choice once. I don’t ever want to-“ He could feel his body become overwhelmed with sobs. He couldn’t stop. Melissa held him and rocked him slowly.

“Shhh…” she said, pulling him up gently and leading him toward an empty room on the floor. The lights were low and the bed was freshly made up. “Here,” she said, “sit here.” She stood before him and cupped his face in her hands. “Does your dad know any of this?”

“Yeah,” he said. “But he just thinks it’ll take time. I mean, I agree, but I hate that I’m such a burden to him now. I didn’t have this problem before and now there’s MRIs and mental hospitals and worries over becoming like my mom and I just can’t-“ He cried in her arms for a long time until sleep took him.

 

~080~

 

“John? It’s Melissa,” she said into her phone. “Everything’s fine. Stiles is okay, he’s sleeping now. The reason I’m calling… well, it’s just- he seems very sleep-deprived and terrified of going to sleep. He knows that trickster thing that had a hold of him is gone, but he’s still having nightmares and seems very ashamed that he’s causing you so much trouble.”

She listened to Sheriff John Stilinski’s sigh before continuing: “Listen, he could stay with Scott, Isaac and me for a few days. See if a change of scenery changes things. Plus, between two werewolves and a nurse, I think he’ll be in good hands.”

“If you think it will help him,” he said. She could hear the pain in his voice. She knew the feeling. If Scott had ever- no. Scott was so strong now. The werewolf bite had been a concern, and the supernatural stuff that has happened since has been a worry, but she wasn’t afraid of it for Scott. Stiles on the other hand was just a kid, normal and well-adjusted (for Stiles) and _just a kid_. Someone had to look out for him. Melissa felt awfully for John. If anyone had a right to care for Stiles it was his own father. Suddenly she felt like an interloper.

“Hey, if you feel that this is something you want to handle between the two of you, I’ll step out. He’s a wonderful boy and I love him like he were my own, but he is yours and I shouldn’t have assumed-“

“No, no, Melissa,” said Stilinski, “It’s fine. You’re a mom. You get it. He’s my son and I love him, but maybe you’re right. Maybe a change of scenery would be welcome. You can tell him yourself when he wakes up. He’s at the hospital with you, right?”

“Yeah,” she said. “You two have plans for dinner? I’m cooking paella for Scott. It was his favorite when he was a kid and it’s my abuela’s recipe. Feel free to join us.”

“My son was supposed to make his old man some turkey burgers for dinner tonight,” said Stilinski, “but I think we just got a better offer. Seven alright?”

“Perfect,” said Melissa. She peered into the window in the door and down at a sleeping Stiles. “I’ll wake him at the end of my shift and let him know he’s been liberated from cooking for the evening.”

“Good,” said Stilinski. “Oh and Melissa? Thanks.”

“No problem, John,” she said. “I’m only too happy to help. Talk later.” She hung up the phone and turned suddenly to a noise from inside the room. Stiles was thrashing wildly about, knocking over a metal prep tray to the floor. “A little help in here!” Melissa shouted as she raced in to the room to restrain a dreaming and terrified Stiles. It took three male nurses to hold him while she woke him.

“Oh… Oh god… I’m so- So sorry, Mrs. McCall… so sorry,” Stiles blubbered.

She smoothed a hand over his hair and hushed him with soft sounds. “It’s alright, Stiles. It’s alright. It was all a dream, sweetheart. I promise. You’re safe now.”

“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” Stiles kept repeating the sentence over and over like a mantra, his body covered in a sheen of sweat, slowly cooling and leaving gooseflesh in its wake. She held him close and rocked him, waving everyone else off. Soon it was only the two of them in the room, one of them apologizing over and over for a crime he didn’t commit.

 

~080~

 

“This was a wonderful idea,” said John. He wiped his mouth with his napkin and leaned back.

Melissa couldn’t help but smile. “Abuelita was a great cook, I have to say.”

“Too awesome, Mrs M.,” said Stiles. His stomach was about to bust from the amount of food he ate, but he was happy. “Thanks a lot for having us over.”

“I’m glad you two could be here,” said Melissa. She eyed the sheriff before she continued: “It gives us an opportunity to talk.”

“Talk about what, mom?” asked Scott. Isaac looked up from his plate, curious but silent.

“Well,” said John, “your mother and I have been talking and-“

“And you two want to date? That’s awesome!” said Scott smiling broadly. Stiles choked on his soda. Isaac perked up instantly, a grin slapped across his face.

Melissa and John’s eyes went wide. “No! No!” they insisted simultaneously. Then they both blushed and John deferred to Melissa. She smiled and explained: “We’ve been talking about the possibility of Stiles staying here for a few days. Living here. With us.”

“What?” said Stiles. A piece of rice had gotten stuck in his throat during his coughing fit and he was making a pained face to work it out. He drank again finally clearing it and catching his breath. “What are you talking about?” He turned to his father.

John shook his head. “Son, look… I know you’ve been having trouble sleeping and well, Melissa thought it might be a great change of pace for you to bunk here for a few. See if the change helps.”

“That sounds like a great idea,” said Scott. “Hey it could be like old times: you on the bed, me on the floor, sneaking downstairs for midnight ice cream…”

“So that’s where my ice cream went all those years,” said Melissa, half-joking. “And here I thought I was going to have to call John in on solving the mystery.”

John chuckled and pointed at both boys: “Two teenage boys plus unguarded ice cream equals no ice cream. Mystery solved.”

“Wow,” she shook her head laughing. “No wonder we keep re-electing you.”

“You know,” said Isaac, “you two should totally date.”

 

~080~

 

The first night in Scott’s bed was like stepping back in time. Things were just like they were five years ago when they talked and talked until they both fell asleep. Of course, the ranting, raving, screaming nightmare Stiles had that night was new.

“Isaac!” he heard Scott shout. He couldn’t see him. Stiles wondered why Scott would scream for Isaac when it was Stiles that was screaming for him.

But everything was moving too slowly. It didn’t match the action. It was peaceful on the surface but a riot underneath, like a swan on the water, he could feel himself paddling fiercely for the shore which only seemed further and further away, the stump of the Nemeton beneath him as he frantically clawed at the waves. “Your move, Stiles,” said the Nogitsune. The board was set up behind him and he couldn’t stop playing the game.

“Isaac! Wake up! I need you!” screamed Scott again. But Stiles couldn’t see Scott. He could only hear him on the periphery. He couldn’t scent him or feel him near. There was too much water, too much darkness, and he had to keep playing the game. If he didn’t play the game he would die.

Suddenly he couldn’t move his hand to place his piece. His hand shook. He couldn’t raise his arm. The Nogitsune asked: “Do you forfeit? Do you concede defeat, Stiles? I will win anyway, but I was hoping you would play on. What is wrong Stiles?”

“Wake up, buddy,” said Scott. “Wake up! Stiles! Stiles, wake up! STILES!” The Alpha roar shocked his body into the dimness of Scott’s room. Scott, Isaac and Melissa were hovering over him. He pulled his arms out of the boys’ grasps and sat up. “Dude, you were having a nightmare.”

The reality of his circumstances hit him hard. Stiles just cried. He sat there like the punk-ass kid he was and bawled like someone stole his Legos. “Alright boys,” said Melissa, “Isaac, back to bed. Thank you for your help. Scott? Honey, would you warm some milk downstairs? It might help him.”

Scott gave Stiles a worried glance and said, “Sure, mom,” before slipping away to the kitchen.

Melissa sat on the bed and held Stiles just as she did earlier that day. He shivered in her arms and cried with the wanton desperation of the eternally damned. She rocked him for what seemed an age before he quieted his sobbing, his breath coming in shaky gasps. When she finally spoke to him it was with a soft tender voice: “I wish you could solve this like a mystery. You know, investigate the reasons and then take steps to knock out the bad guy by getting one step ahead of him. You know, like you kids do with all these creatures and situations you come across. I wish there were a… what’s the board with all the strings pointing to things?”

Stiles opened his eyes and said: “That’s it. That’s how I’ll do it.” He broke from Melissa’s embrace. “Thank you. That’s it. That’s just what I’ll do.” He got up from the bed and put his shoes on.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Melissa asked.

“Home,” said Stiles, his mind racing a mile a minute. “I’ve got to get started on this.”

“Stiles?” asked Scott. He stood in the doorway, a warm glass of milk in his hand.

“Don’t let him leave, Scott,” said Melissa, stepping to his side and taking the milk from him. Turning to Stiles she said: “You can’t leave tonight, Stiles. Here, drink this. Get some rest. You’ll feel better once you’ve got a few hours of sleep. There’s time enough for your string theory later.”

“String theory?” asked Scott.

“Nevermind,” she said, “just get him to lie down again.”

It took some convincing and a soft shove from an Alpha to get Stiles back in the bed, shoeless, shirtless, and with a belly full of warm milk. “Now sleep!” Melissa commanded as she left the two boys alone.

“Nightmares?” asked Scott. “Why didn’t you tell me it was this bad?”

“I don’t know,” moaned Stiles. He beat a fist against the mattress in frustration. “I guess that after all we’ve been through – after all I put everyone through-“

“That wasn’t you, Stiles,” said Scott. Stiles could see Scott’s pained expression in his mind’s eye as he stared at the ceiling. He winced as his best friend continued. “We were fighting a trickster demon, man. You don’t just wave a sword or show your claws and have one of those back off. It was serious, Stiles. And you were just a pawn.”

“I am aware,” said Stiles.

“And you also know that the thing is gone. Defeated. It can never come back again either because it’s been permanently trapped. Dead and maybe dying in that Nemeton wood canister.’

“I am also aware,” Stiles repeated, feeling worse as Scott went on.

“So Stiles,” he asked, “what the hell is going on? Do you think this is something Deaton could help with?”

“Already tried,” Stiles said. “He told me to go see a human doctor. All it makes me think of is my stay in Eichen House. Which, in case you didn’t realize it, is not on my list for return visits.”

“I get that,” said Scott softly. “I’m sorry, man.”

“It’s okay,” said Stiles. “Your mom gave me a hell of an idea though. I need to document this stuff. I need to follow it through, as scary as it is, and write down what I remember and then take steps to eliminate the fear systematically. I need to be my own doctor about this.”

He could feel Scott smiling in the darkness. “I think you’re going to be alright, Stiles,” he said. “Now that you have a path to follow, you’ll be great.”

“Let’s hope so,” said Stiles, “because if this keeps up, I’m gonna need Eichen House more than ever and I really don’t want to go back.”


	2. Chapter 2

The rest of Stiles’ school day was filled with the preoccupying dilemma of what Styles came to call “sleeping logistics”. As far as Stiles was concerned, the location of where he slept didn’t matter: his house, Scott’s house, it was all the same thing – fall asleep, get haunted, scream awake. Sometimes more than once in a night. So the biggest problem was finding a place to sleep by himself in order to end the nightmares.

The biggest hurdle was the guilt associated with his bad dreams. Stiles didn’t want to be a burden to anyone when it came to putting him up for the night. He needed a place to crash where it would be safe but he wouldn’t have anyone around to disturb him and who he wouldn’t disturb. He needed to ride out the nightmares in order to study them, to defeat them, and if people were there to wake him up, he wouldn’t have the power to conquer them. Plus, it would be too tempting to rest in the arms of someone who was willing to coddle him. Not to mention that he would only be disturbing the sleep of people he cared about. He needed to be alone.

But where could he go that his father wouldn’t freak out? He couldn’t go to a hotel because they cost money and (surprise!) he didn’t have any. He couldn’t stay at anyone’s house because (duh!) that was the point of being alone. He toyed with the idea of remaining overnight at Deaton’s office, but he decided against it. The last thing he wanted to do was to wake up screaming and set off all the dogs and cats Deaton was treating overnight. It was one thing to wake to the sounds of his own screams; it was quite another to wake to the barking of dogs and the caterwauling of cats that would continue on even after he regained his bearings on the world. No thanks.

The Hale house was gone. The root cellar of the Nemeton was out of the question. So was a back room at the hospital or the school. Stiles was venting his frustration in the halls to Scott. “There is literally no place in Beacon Hills that I can sleep on my own.”

“Too bad you can’t get an apartment in Derek’s building,” said Scott. “I dont’ know if the rest of the building is empty, but he might want to rent the apartment to you and that’s not do-able.”

“Well, I am underage so he can’t really do that,” said Stiles, “But even so, having Derek for a landlord? Yeah… a whole heapin’ helpin’ of NO on that one, buddy.”

“I don’t think it would be that bad,” said Scott. Suddenly he turned to Stiles, closing his locker with a bang. “You know, I think you should ask him anyway. Who knows? He may have an idea of where you can go that you haven’t thought of.”

Stiles shouldered his backpack and sighed. “Maybe you’re right. I need to do something.” The thought of facing Derek about this was intimidating. The man was literally a beast some of the time and a total sourpuss for the rest of the time. Why would he even want to help Stiles out? It’s not as if he were a werewolf needing help or a kitsune or hell, even a kanima. There was no mystery to solve as to why he was having the nightmares; he just wanted them to stop. And Deaton had already told him that it required a human touch, not a supernatural one.

Feeling defeated before he even began, Stiles slumped in his econ class as Coach tried to educate them in the relationship between supply and demand. As he half-listened, he contemplated what he had to offer Derek in exchange for his advice. The supply/demand relationship there was decidedly uneven. He would just have to trust that Derek was in a giving mood that day.

 

~080~

 

“You need to sleep alone?” asked Derek, his arms crossed and eyes narrowed. He leaned back against the table in his loft with the sunlight at his back.

“Entirely,” said Stiles. He was a bit nervous to be here alone and his eyes darted about in case Peter was visiting. The last person he wanted to find out about his current weakness was Derek’s ultra-evil uncle.

“And Deaton won’t help you?” he asked.

“He claims he can’t,” said Stiles, shifting his weight from foot to foot as the werewolf took stock of him. “And it’s not as if I relish the idea of sleeping in a pet cage or anything so it’s just as well.”

“And you’ve asked Scott to put you up-“

“I’ve thought of everything, okay?” said Stiles, exasperated. “Look Derek, I need this as a favor. A place where I can be alone this weekend to work out some stuff. Where I won’t be disturbed and where I won’t have a chance to run off because someone supernatural and strong will prevent me from throwing myself in front of a train or whatever. God, why did I think of that?” Stiles smacked himself in the forehead and Derek raised his eyebrows in silent surprise. “Anyway, I need this. And you can ask anything of me in exchange. Whatever I have to give, it’s yours - be it body, soul, or mind. I don’t care anymore. I just want a good night’s sleep, Derek. It’s all I ask. I’m gonna lose my mind if I don’t get more than a few hours at a stretch. Please. Please. Pleasepleasepleasepleasepleeeeease?”

Derek held his hands out defensively. “Whoa, whoa, you spaz. Relax.” He gripped Stiles by the upper arms and looked him in the face. “Do you have enough to pay for rent?”

“Dude, I’m a total pauper here,” said Stiles. “I’m throwing myself on your mercy. Please help me.”

“Alright, alright,” said Derek, hoping to not have to deal with another begging session from him. “Let me think a minute.” He released Stiles and walked over to a small filing cabinet tucked in a corner of the loft. He opened a drawer and pulled out a scheduling book. He returned to the table, sat, and flipped through the book, carefully looking at the tenant information therein.

“Wow,” said Stiles from over his shoulder. He had snuck around the other side of the table to get a peek at what Derek was doing. “Is that your handwriting? That’s really- You have really neat handwriting. It’s like a girl’s.” Derek turned to glare at Stiles and he jerked his head away. “What? It’s a compliment. Mine’s total chickenscratch. Yours is… I don’t know… elegant?”

“Shut up, Stiles,” said Derek. Only when he was certain Stiles wasn’t going to utter another syllable did he turn back to the book. After another minute, he made a soft grunt of satisfaction with the dates he was checking. “It was today,” he said.

He turned to Stiles. “What was today?” asked Stiles.

“The day I thought it was,” said Derek, closing the book. “I think you might be in luck, Mr. Stilinski.”

 

~080~

 

The door opened onto a sparsely furnished apartment. Stiles walked in first and Derek flipped the light switch. Stiles looked up at the ceiling light above his head. “I thought you said no one lived here, that the tenant moved out.”

“I did. They moved out a week ago. I try to keep the lights on after the tenant moves out so I can still show it if I need to, rain or shine,” Derek said. “Plus it gives the new tenant an idea of what switches work for what.”

“I see,” said Stiles. He wandered off to his right and through an open doorway. “Bedroom looks spacious. Bathroom too,” his voice came back a bit hollow-sounding from the other room. He appeared in the door way again and pointed at the opposite wall to a galley kitchen with a breakfast bar that was open to the living room. “And my own kitchen. Fantastic.”

“Hey,” said Derek. “None of this is actually yours, remember? You’re only here for the weekend. And you’re lucky I even had this.”

“Oh come on!” said Stiles. “I never see anyone coming or going out of this place except our own Scooby-Doo gang. You can’t tell me that the rest of the building is filled with tenants.” Derek stared at him. “Seriously?” Stiles asked. Derek’s stare never wavered. After another moment Stiles just nodded his head. “Okay then,” he said. “I’ll just treat this place like it’s not mine and hopefully get some damn answers.”

“If you need anything, I’m just one floor up and down the hall,” said Derek. He held out a small key ring with two keys. “Here you go. Good luck.” He tossed them lightly to Stiles and disappeared.

Stiles looked around his new domicile. “Okay,” he breathed. There was a lot of work to do before bedtime.

 

~080~

 

He stood in the room ticking off the things he had accomplished in preparation for the night: “Nightlight in the bathroom: check; soft bed sheets and comforter, check; clothes for the morning, check; extra underwear just in case, check; notebooks with lots of pens, check; video camera set up with full battery and charger, check; bottled water, check; lined trash can for possible vomit, check; chain with ankle shackle, check; phone and charger and headphones, check check and check.” He took a deep breath and got ready for bed.

He secured the ankle shackle with a key and then put the key in the bedside table drawer. The other end of the chain was attached to the bed so he couldn’t go far if he decided to sleepwalk. As it was, he could make it to the toilet and back with the length he had measured out and tested, but there was no way he could leave the apartment without taking the queen size bed frame with him. Stiles figured that even in his most determined dream he wouldn’t be that ambitious.

The notebook and all of the pens were in the drawer as well, but he wouldn’t need them until the dreams woke him. The video camera was already running and Stiles turned out the lantern he had brought for illumination should he need it.

He lay in the dark, his mind spinning. “Sleep,” he muttered to himself. “Need to sleep. Ugh… Fuck it. Music. That’ll help.”

The light from the phone in the darkness was almost too much on his eyes but he slid his thumb past artist after artist, mumbling: “Paramore, no; Panic!, no; Pavarotti, no- wait? Why do I have Pavarotti on here? Dammit, Scott.” He sighed and started again: “AC/DC, no; Beyonce, nope… Oh shit… I know.” He settled for Ray Lamontagne. He made a further mental note to just create a damn playlist.

Settling back down he listened to the raspy singers voice talk about a lost love. It was soothing enough to calm him and he thought of Malia at Eichen House. He wondered where she was and how she was doing. He remembered her lithe body underneath him and wondered when it was exactly that he stopped fantasizing about Lydia Martin. His mind skipped forward to a drill to Malia’s head. He heard Lydia scream in the distance and the lights went out in the room. He covered his ears, but the screaming and the drill and the Nogitsune were all there and they were all vying for his attention and they all wanted him to give in, Stiles… give in, Stiles. “Let me IN!” demanded the Nogitsune, its bandaged visage right in his face, silver needle teeth ready to clamp down on his soul.

He thought of the notebooks. “You aren’t going to win,” he said to him, holding one up. The monster batted it out of his hand easily and Stiles lost his nerve. He attempted to run, but the Nogitsune had him by the ankle. And then it had him by the knee. And then it had him by the hips, by the arms… he was drowning in the floor. Concrete swam around him and he looked back to see Malia drilling a hole in Lydia’s head and Lydia was screaming and screaming and screaming and Malia was covered in blood and… everything stopped.

He panted and strained to see. He couldn’t reach the lantern. Where the fuck? His hands hit a wall. They slid up it, fumbling, searching for anything to tell him where he was. There was a light switch. He was temporarily blinded but spun, his back to the wall. He was in the high school locker room.

Across the way on the shelf of his locker he saw the notebook. He moved to it, snatched it up, and smiled. “Pieces of paper won’t defeat me, you know,” he said. The voice was different. He turned to see himself. The Nogitsune version of himself faced him with two of the Oni at his shoulders.

“Well you look like hell,” retorted Stiles. “And I’ve got strength now. And I have friends. Friends who will help me.”

The demon sighed, looking off to the side carelessly. “I just think it’s so sweet that you think you can help yourself.” The Nogitsune leered at him, eyes dark with delight. “You just think you have all the answers, don’t you?”

“You’re not real,” he said.

“Are we back to that again?”

“But you’re not. You’re a figment of my imagination because you were destroyed,” Stiles stated emphatically. He seemed to draw strength from the notebook in his hands.

“You do talk a good game, Stiles,” said the demon, stepping closer to him. “But we all know that when push comes to shove, you’re a fucking coward.”

“I am not a coward,” he said.

“Then why are you crying?” he asked, pouting in an exaggerated manner.

His mocking was enough to anger Stiles. He wiped at what tears stood out against his cheeks and shut his eyes tightly. He had read a book on dreams in his preparations and there were a few tips and tricks he had acquired. He wanted to see if they would work.

When he opened his eyes, the Oni were gone. Demon Stiles looked around, a bit confused. He narrowed his eyes at Stiles and continued his menacing pace forward. “Well… we are a clever boy, aren’t we?”

“I try,” said Stiles, sticking out his chin. He desperately wished for a baseball bat instead of a notebook, but if he had to roll up the paper and swat this bastard on the nose, he would.

“Do you know what really kills you about this?” asked the Nogitsune.

“No, but I’m sure you’ll tell me,” said Stiles. He was beginning to see why he appeared as so annoying to Derek and Scott sometimes; he really didn’t ever shut up.

“You miss it,” it said simply.

Stiles took a second for that to process. “What?”

The demon took another slow step forward. “You miss it. You miss the power you commanded. You miss the tricks. You miss the chaos you caused. You miss stabbing your best friend and twisting the knife; finally you were the stronger one, Stiles, and it felt good.”

“Shut up,” he said, backing away. The demon took another step forward to match it. “Just shut up. That wasn’t me; that was you. It was all you. And this is still a trick somehow. You’re lying to me. Every word out of your mouth is a lie. It always was. You fooled Mrs. McCall and Scott, all of them, and you lied.”

“But if I’m lying to you, Stiles,” said the Nogitsune, “then was I destroyed? You say that I was, but if that’s so, then how am I able to lie to you?”

“I don’t know,” said Stiles. His back struck one of the lockers behind him with a startling bang.

“Yes you do, Stiles,” growled the demon. His voice was calming, almost soothingly seductive. “You know exactly why I’m here and why I want in again. You want my power back.”

Stiles couldn’t move his arms. His breath came in pants, a heavy weight across his chest. Somewhere down the hall the class bell was going off. The demon was right up against him now, noses almost touching, eyes boring into his brain. “Say it, Stiles,” said the monster. “Tell yourself the truth. Come on, Stiles. You’re all about the truth, aren’t you? Truth, justice, and the American way – tell the truth, Stiles. If I’m really gone, then the only thing in here with you… _is you_.”

“Please,” begged Stiles, tears streaming down his face. “I don’t want it. I don’t. I swear. I don’t want it. Please.”

“You want me, Stiles Stilinski,” said the Nogitsune. “You want me like no one else. You want me because you know what I can give you. You want to be more than who you are. And you know the only way is through me.” His breath was against his lips. He whispered: “Let. Me. In…. Take me… take… take… _take_ …”

The warm press of his lips against him was revolting and soothing all at once. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears… lub-dub ( _take_ )… lub-dub ( _take_ )… lub-dub ( _take_ )… Each beat was an eternity.

He pushed back. Hard.

 

~080~

 

He thrashed, he raved, he screamed, he clawed his way back to the surface and sat up in the soft light of morning, sheets soaked with sweat. He leaned over and retched into the trash bin but there wasn’t anything to expectorate. He buried his face in the mattress and cried.

What the hell is wrong with me?

He had to write it down. The notebooks would capture the dreams better than anything. He fumbled for the pen and book and lit the lantern. He lay on his stomach and wrote what he could recall, the last bit being the sharpest in his memory. He didn’t jot down conversations because those faded as soon as he had awakened but the impressions, the thoughts, they were still there. The atmosphere was there as well. He wrote down everything he could remember and when he was done he had only filled half a page.

“That can’t be it,” he said. “That can’t be.”

“What can’t be it?” asked Derek from the bedroom doorway.

Stiles jumped out of his skin, turning just enough to see him. “Jesus Christ! Wear a bell! What the hell, Derek? How did you get in here?”

Derek held up a huge circular key ring with a massive amount of keys on it and shook it so they jingled. “Landlord, remember?” he asked. He nodded toward the ankle shackle and chain Stiles was wearing. “What’s up with that?” He sniffed the air. “You’re not bitten and it’s not a full moon… so…”

Stiles glared at him, eyes wide, head shaking mockingly. “So?” he parroted. “So it’s none of your business, alright?”

Derek spotted the camera in the corner. “Are you making pornos in here?”

“What?!” asked Stiles, sitting up. “No!” Derek raised his eyebrows skeptically. Stiles used a calmer tone when he repeated his denial: “No, Derek, I am not making pornographic films in your building.”

“Because if you needed money-,” said Derek with half a grin.

“Shut the fuck up about money, Hale,” said Stiles, his eyes hardened. There was no way Derek would be privy to his father’s debt to the hospital and Eichen House, but he felt attacked just the same.

“Sorry,” said Derek, holding his hands out in truce. “Sorry, man. I didn’t mean to insult you. I just would really like to know why you were screaming your head off down here. I don’t know if you realize it, but I can hear pretty much anything in this building.”

“Wolf hearing, right,” said Stiles. He sighed. “Look, I didn’t want to disturb anyone with this. I need time and space to figure it out. And I really think I have to do it alone. So far, I’m making progress, but I don’t know if I’ll be able to have much more luck in the future. I’ll have to take it day by day - provided I don’t go insane in the process.”

“What are you trying to do?” asked Derek.

“I don’t want you to get involved,” he said, “especially when it’s my problem and no one else’s.”

“Stiles, you’re in my building in an apartment I plan on renting out soon. You scream loud enough to wake the dead and I’m not supposed to get involved?” He walked over to the bed and sat on the end. He placed a warm hand over the shackled ankle. “I think I’m already involved.”

Stiles watched as Derek’s thumb made soothing passes over his skin. “I gotta pee,” he said suddenly. He retrieved the key from the drawer and unlocked himself. “Sorry,” he muttered as he stepped to the bathroom to relieve himself.

As the door closed, Derek looked at the camera, got up and turned it off. He accessed the last file recorded and played it, fast-forwarding until he could clearly see Stiles get up, walk around the room to the doorway, stop and fall when he came to the end of his tether. He saw him pick himself up and walk backward until he was against the bed. He then fell into the mattress and moved his arms and mouth as though he were talking to someone. He seemed to be miming holding something in his hands. Then his hands went flat against the mattress and his head flipped from side to side as though he were backed against a wall. Then he froze.

“What are you doing?” asked Stiles. Derek hit the pause button reflexively.

He blushed a bit but then confessed. “Watching your film,” he said.

“Did I do anything?” he asked.

“I’ll say,” said Derek. He looked at Stiles with a trace of fear. He rewound the scene for Stiles to see and kept it playing past the time he first paused it. Derek watched Stiles out of the corner of his eye; the boy had gone deathly pale.

The Stiles in the video was frozen against the mattress just as Derek last saw him. They watched as his body slowly sat up. His eyes opened and he looked right into the camera lens.

And then he screamed.


	3. Chapter 3

“Maybe I need more chains,” said Stiles. He was sitting in Derek’s loft and rearranging scrambled eggs on his plate.

“Maybe you need to just talk about it,” said Derek who watched him from the other side of the table and drank his coffee.

“I’m sorry I woke you and all, but this is my issue,” he said. “I need to figure this out myself.”

“Why?” asked Derek.

Stiles looked up at him. Something hit him hard with that question, something he couldn’t quite put into words in his usual conversation. He got a tenuous grasp of it just then but it wasn’t the whole picture; it was the tip of the iceberg, but he said: “I’m the weakest.”

“What do you mean?” asked Derek. He leaned forward, his coffee mug in his hands on the table.

Stiles stared at those hands: powerful yet graceful. He wished he were the same. “I mean I’m the runt of the litter in this pack. I’m the human.” Then he remembered what the Nogitsune said to him. “I miss the power.” The words turned to ash in his mouth. He felt like puking his guts up. He felt like running from the room.

“If you want power,” said Derek. “All you have to do is ask.” Derek let go of his mug and circled the table like a predator. He came around to Stiles and placed his hands on his shoulders, sliding them down to his upper forearms.

Stiles watched the hands again where they wrapped around his arms. Derek’s breath was warm against his throat. “Ask Scott to bite you, Stiles. You’ll have plenty of power after that.”

Stiles laughed nervously before shaking off Derek’s hold. “Very funny, Derek. You’ve got jokes.”

“Hey,” he said, “I’m only trying to help.”

Stiles looked back and up at Derek with a sad smile. “Yeah. Thanks for trying.”

“Eat,” commanded Derek. “Then get the hell out. I’ve got things to do and you’ve got a creepy-ass video to re-watch.”

“Fine,” said Stiles. He shoveled a forkful of eggs into his mouth and though about what the dream meant and what he was supposed to do with that.

 

~080~

 

The video did nothing more than feed into his fear. He thought about buying more chain from the hardware store, but in the end decided on those industrial-strength straps that hold down construction lumber on flatbed trucks. He bought two: one for his chest, and one for his feet. He realized glumly that he would have to ask Derek to secure them for him that night, but it was only going to be the once so he thought he might not mind.

He laced them under the bed frame and left the open ends on the mattress ready to be secured. It would take Derek a matter of moments to crank them down to where they were snug. He didn’t want to not be able to wriggle from them when awake, but he needed to be able to restrain himself from sleepwalking.

Derek was home when he knocked. “You want me to what?” he asked.

“Please, Derek,” said Stiles. “It’s just a precaution so I don’t hurt myself.”

“Right,” said Derek, a crinkle of concern between his eyes. “So basically you’re asking me to tuck you in.”

“Look,” said Stiles, embarrassed, “if it’s too much to ask, I’ll get Scott-“

Derek laughed. “Oh like Scott will just strap you to a bed and leave you there all night,” he said. “You know him: he won’t leave like you want him to. He’ll hang around and lose sleep and you can’t live with that.”

Stiles closed his eyes against Derek’s truth. Scott would be a martyr. He sighed. “That is the whole point of me being here alone,” he agreed.

“So I guess it is just up to me,” said Derek. “Are you sure that’s what you want? I mean, because I’ll leave you, but I can’t help it if I hear you.”

“Yeah, well… there’s nothing I can do about that,” said Stiles. “So the real question is: can you stay away?”

Derek studied him for a bit, his head cocked to the side. “If that’s what you want, Stiles.”

“It is.”

Derek shrugged. “Then fine. Tough love it is.”

 

~080~

 

The straps weren’t so tight that he couldn’t roll over if he needed to. It was perfect. If he lay still, he couldn’t tell they were there at all. And that’s how it was supposed to be: just a precautionary measure. Even so, Derek wouldn’t leave until Stiles practically signed in blood that he was fine and that he was going to be fine no matter what.

Once he was gone, it was simply a matter of falling asleep. He reached for his phone and called up his music. He had been clever in the meantime; he made himself a mix of all the more soothing tracks he could find. The last song he remembered was an Ed Sheeran tune.

Snow fell on an open Japanese garden. It was peaceful here. There was no sound except some wind but Stiles wasn’t cold. He wasn’t even leaving footprints. He soon realized that he was the wind. Then doors behind him opened and Scott, Kira, Lydia, and Stiles walked in. This Stiles was the Stiles he was now; he was reliving a memory, the Nogitsune nightmare. He tried to scream the answer to them before the Oni could attack, but his words were the wind’s words. He held no power here.

The Nogitsune appeared before them, overwhelming them with numbers, despite Kira and Scott tearing their way through attacker after attacker. They were surrounded standing back to back, guard up, and panting. “Walk through it!” Stiles screamed. The snow fell.

He saw himself huddled with Lydia and he looked so small. He was a scared rabbit. Lydia looked freaked, but then she never could stand violence. But Stiles? He had seen his fair share. He had been tested by werewolves, had guns held to his head, and had almost drowned while trying to prevent Derek from drowning. It had been an eventful couple of years so far and he should have worn a braver face.

He was ashamed of that boy in the snow.

“See, Stiles,” said the Nogitsune. “See what you are?” The monster was addressing him. Not the him in the snow with his three friends but the zephyr-self he had become to observe this memory. It looked up and away from them, breaking from the memory of it all and spoke to him directly. “You were right. A scared rabbit. That is all you are. All you are destined to be.” Somehow the Nogitsune was moving closer to him. The more it spoke, the more the other events were crowded out in favor of the words spilling from between the demon’s teeth.

“The only reason you haven’t perished yet is because you surround yourself with more powerful allies. Even poor Lydia, terrified as she is, is stronger than you’ll ever be.” Stiles could barely trace her outline now. Her panicked face was the last thing he saw of her before the darkness took her. Something in his heart sank.

“I tried to drive her mad, but it didn’t work. That made me angry, Stiles. I wanted to kill her, but I couldn’t because at the end of the day, she was more valuable to me alive than dead. You, on the other hand, were just a convenient vessel. I chose you because you are weak, Stiles. I made you strong. You are only strong with me.” And Stiles knew it was true. He was the weakest link in the pack, if he was even granted a membership into a pack. He felt indignation rise at the words that were being spoken, but he had no fists to hit, no voice to fight back. All he could see now was the Nogitsune. And now it wore his face. And it was speaking with his voice.

"Give yourself to me again, Stiles. We will destroy them all."

“NO!” he raged. He could feel claws catch and scrape at his chest. There were unseen hands trying to grab his wrists and a ringing in his ears like the alarm bell from school. He felt the kiss of the Nogitsune again. It was more real than it was before. It was rough, he could feel the stubble on the liar’s face. He pushed it away.

_Stiles! Wake up! Stiles!_

It sounded like Derek but he couldn’t be seen. The darkness that surrounded him was laughing at him. He felt a pressure on his chest and then it slipped away. His feet kicked and he swam to the surface and looked up at the stump of the Nemeton. He was playing Go with the creature again and again, his voice could not be heard. In fact, he was floating away from them.

They were getting smaller and smaller and he wasn’t drowning. He was floating on his back, stars all around him. It was the most peaceful he had been in a long time. There was a smell to this place: musk, earth, spice… he couldn’t decide. It was warm and comforting and it calmed him instantly. He moved deeper into the stars and disappeared in dreamless wanderings.

 

~080~

 

Sunlight streamed into the room and Stiles stretched. “It’s about time you woke up,” said a familiar voice. Derek.

Stiles groaned and put a hand over his eyes. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Who me? I’ve been here ever since the fire alarm last night,” he said. There was a mug of coffee in his hand and he sipped at it casually.

“Fire alarm?” asked Stiles. He blinked at him. And then he jumped out of the bed. “Jesus! This is your bed. What the hell am I doing in your bed?”

“I had to put you somewhere,” said Derek. “And it was weird how you calmed down when I picked you up. So I figured, scent must be part of it. When we were done outside, I brought you in and put you here. You were fine, no nightmares, no nothing.”

“Wait. What happened exactly?” asked Stiles, a pained expression crossing his face. “You picked me up and carried me outside? Why?”

Derek looked at him like he was stupid. “It was a fire alarm, Stiles. Everyone knows you have to evacuate during a building-wide fire alarm.”

“So you what- physically untied me, carried me outside, and waited with the rest of the building’s tenants until the fire department came and went?” asked Stiles, becoming more and more incredulous as the seconds ticked by.

“No,” he said. “I called off the fire department once I didn’t smell smoke. We were outside and waiting until the electrician I called showed up.”

“Oh,” said Stiles. “Okay. The electrician. Yeah. Perfect. And you expect me to believe that all that actually happened last night and I didn’t wake up? Like, actual alarm bells were going off and I didn’t twitch a muscle?”

“Oh you were twitching alright,” said Derek with a small smirk. “You were having another nightmare. I had to hold your hands down at one point.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Slightly,” said Derek. He walked to Stiles and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “But you not waking up is not what disturbs me most about you, Stiles.”

“Oh? Because I find it incredibly disturbing.”

“No. What bothers me most is that you stopped having the nightmare as soon as I was near you. You struggled for a few seconds and you were screaming at one point. But then you just went lax. It was like you gave up.”

“I probably moved into a deeper sleep,” he said.

“Possibly,” said Derek. “But I still say it was my scent.”

Stiles looked at him strangely. “You been at the wolfsbane, buddy? Because from the way you’re talking I think you have me mistaken for a werewolf.”

“Wolfsbane is not catnip, Stiles,” said Derek rolling his eyes. “And no, I don’t think you’re a werewolf. But humans are animals too and certain scents evoke certain emotions.”

“Yeah, well… I know humans are animals, but seriously? Scent? I mean, what emotion could your scent possibly evoke for me?”

“Well, whatever it is it calms you and that’s what matters.”

“So what are you saying?” asked Stiles, his hands on his hips. “That if I never want to have another nightmare that I should just start sleeping with you?”

Derek looked at him with an expression of quiet exasperation. “No, dumbass. I’m gonna give you one of my shirts. Ball it up next to you and sleep with it. See if it helps. If it does, then keep the shirt. Okay?”

Stiles gave it a moment’s thought and then agreed: “Okay. We’ll see.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

He felt so stupid. He laid in the bed, strapped down, same scenario as before, but now he held Derek’s t-shirt in his hands wondering how best to sleep with it. He felt like a lovesick puppy or something; curling up with his lover’s clothing because he misses him so. “Oh Derek where are you? Waaa waaa,” he said mockingly to no one. He stuck the shirt beside his head on the pillow and muttered: “This is so stupid,” before turning off the lantern and going to sleep.

But there was nothing - peaceful blissful nothing. Restful restorative sleep was his that night and Stiles hated to admit how completely weird that was. It wasn’t fair. He had been struggling to conquer this all on his own only to need a freaking woobie to get him through. Who was he? Linus from the Peanuts gang? He wriggled out from under the straps the next morning feeling refreshed and decidedly angry. Derek’s idea had actually worked and more than that – Stiles really needed it to.

He hated Derek for being the solution to his problem; it was emasculating. Just like everything else about having powerful supernatural friends, he always felt like the lowest guy on the totem pole. He packed everything away by shoving it into his duffel: sheets, towel, morning shaving kit, clothes, video camera – all of it went in haphazardly without care. The notebooks came next and Stiles practically folded them in two as he shoved and shoved and shoved for them to get in, _dammit, get in_! He pulled the cord taut on the opening and looked around for anything he might have forgotten and there it was in the center of the floor where he had thrown it: the t-shirt. Stiles eyed it like a snake.

He stared it down for almost a minute before pressing his lips into a thin line and snatching it up off the floor. He stuck it into his bag and slung the whole thing over his shoulder so suddenly, he almost lost his balance. “Fuck,” he muttered. “Stupid Derek. Fucking stupid.”

He left the building, never giving Derek a thank you or a goodbye. He didn’t want to see that stupid shit-eating grin on the werewolf’s face knowing that he was the reason Stiles’ nightmares had stopped. He wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. It was a matter of pride.

 

~080~

 

He slept with the t-shirt every night for two weeks and for those two weeks, he actually slept. He slept the sleep of the innocent. He slept the sleep of the dead. It was a beautiful thing. He had even gotten used to using it, pushing the thought of it being a crutch out of his mind as he laid it across his pillow every night, allowing the scent of Derek to seep into his subconscious.

School was winding down to an end and things had started to look up: Coach was never really glad to see him at the games, but he did seem to appreciate that Stiles wasn’t falling asleep during his Olympic-level bench warming. His grades had begun to improve again. His friends seemed happier that he was happier. He was even trying to do some extra credit in history to make up for his current academic status – and he was actually excited to do it. It was like a freaking miracle.

He bounded up the stairs to his room two at a time when he heard his dad call up: “Stiles! I’m taking the late shift today so you’ll be alone tonight. Don’t forget to lock the doors before you go to bed and your laundry is in the basket in your room. I’d love it if the clothing could actually make it to a dresser drawer.”

“Thanks, dad,” called Stiles, “Have a good night.” He turned the corner to his room and shook his head with a grin: his dad had made up his bed with fresh sheets, the basket of clean clothes sitting on the corner of the mattress. His smile faded as soon as he saw the shirt on top. Grey with faded black Beacon Hills Basketball lettering… _oh no_.

“Dammit.”

He picked up the shirt with a forlorn look. He was going to have to tell Derek. And then he was going to have to get another shirt. And Derek would grin that stupid grin with those pearly white teeth and those glinting green eyes and all the stubble of a sex god leering at him. He could even hear him in his head: “So it worked then? And scent is a trigger for you? Specifically my scent? Huh… what do you know.”

“Oh shut up you grumpy bastard,” Stiles muttered. He sat on the edge of his bed and listened to the front door slam as his father left for work. “I hate my life,” he moaned and buried his face in the shirt, smelling the fabric softener instead of the comforting musk that kept the boogieman at bay.

 

~080~

 

The ride to Derek’s was the longest of his life. On the way, he came up with the perfect excuse to save his wounded pride: it was all a mistake. He had solved the issue on his own and had packed Derek’s shirt up by mistake when he left. He was simply doing the neighborly thing and returning it to its rightful owner. That would work. It sounded like Stiles to absentmindedly stuff a shirt in with the dirty laundry only to find it two weeks later at the bottom of the laundry basket. Derek might even appreciate the fact that it was freshly laundered. By the time he got to Derek’s building, he had a song in his heart.

He bounded to the door of Derek’s loft and knocked respectfully. It slid open and as Derek stood before him, Stiles presented the shirt like a ringbearer at a wedding. “Here you go,” said Stiles. “Sorry I forgot I had it. It’s been cleaned.”

“So it worked?” asked Derek and Stiles winced inwardly.

“No! No no… nice try though,” said Stiles. “It turns out I figured out how to shut it all down. I’m good, bro. Just wanted to return what I never needed in the first place.”

“Oh,” said Derek. He actually seemed a bit disappointed and Stiles couldn’t have been happier. “Ok then. So long as you’re alright.”

“Me? I’m fine. Never better. Matter of fact, it’s dad’s first night shift in a couple and I’ll be alone in the house. I’ll sleep like a freakin’ baby and wake refreshed and all will be right with the world. Just like it has been for two weeks now. I’m good, man.”

“Great,” said Derek. “Good to hear.”

There was an awkward pause as the two of them regarded each other. Stiles broke it first: “So… I’ll see ya.”

“Yeah,” said Derek. “Thanks for stopping by. Glad you’re better.”

“All better,” said Stiles, nodding as he stepped away from Derek, strutting a little. “Gotta go… Got a lot of sleeping to catch up on. You know how it is.” Stiles shot him a double thumbs up and laughed awkwardly.

Derek just sort of smiled and nodded, not having a clue about what Stiles was talking about. His expression said it all: “You are a complete spaz, Stilinski.”

 

~080~

 

It was worse than drowning. It was like being drowned by the man in the mirror. His own face stared down at him through the water’s surface, ice floating between them. His hands wrapped thick and tight around his own throat. He watched helplessly as his expression turned from determined and dark to gleefully sadistic. He could see the darkness creeping up on the sides of his vision and the sound of his heartbeat in his ears was overwhelming. It took all of his concentration to shove his hands up out of the water, breaking the surface with a splash he couldn’t quite hear and it seemed an age before his fingers gripped the shirt of his evil self. He tried pushing him away, but the Nogitsune held solid as stone… _stone_. He pulled. The creature with his face plunged in after him and the water was deep and dark and they tumbled together in a slow floating dance of death.

Stiles couldn’t tell what end was up, where the surface was. He could barely breathe – he knew he shouldn’t be able to at all – but he still could if he tried. It came in gasps from somewhere; maybe it was a hidden ability to breathe underwater provided by the Nogitsune for its own twisted purposes? Who knew? But Stiles kicked at his body and hit at his arms, feeling the blows along his own limbs and torso with every strike he made to his twin self. He was literally beating himself up. Underwater. In the dark.

His back struck something: a desk. He looked over and saw his father’s name placard and favorite coffee mug. Behind the head of the Thing the surface of the water came crashing downward and he felt the ice cubes at the surface hit his face and legs as it broke over them both. He gasped for air desperately and rolled the creature off of him. It fell away from him and Stiles slipped on the wet floor as he tore from his father’s office, past the creature, and out the door, the laughter of the Nogitsune following him like a shadow.

He knew he had to get to Derek. He knew Derek was the answer.

_And you need him, don’t you? You weakling._

“Shut up!” he cried, but the Nogitsune was just getting started.

_You need him so desperately. You aren’t strong. He is. You don’t have the power to keep me at bay. He does. You need him like a cripple needs a crutch and that makes you weak, Stiles._

“Get out of my head!” he screamed.

_I can’t. It’s where I live. Or have you forgotten, Stiles? I AM YOU._

“It’s not true,” said Stiles. He was running through the woods toward the Hale house.

_You have no power and yet you have all the power. All you have to do is welcome me in, Stiles. Welcome me in and we can defeat them all. You and I are the same as two sides of the same coin. Your ambition is me. Your hunger is me. Your desire to stand atop the broken bodies of your enemies is me._

“That’s not who I am,” said Stiles.

_Stiles… if that’s true, and I am dead, then why am I saying these things if it is not part of who you are?_

Stiles fell to his knees at the foot of the Hale house. The trees spun above him and he screamed for Derek. He screamed for his own sanity. This couldn’t be happening again. He needed the earthy smell of Derek, the musky, spicy warmth. It would ground him. Frantically he thought of things that would contain Derek’s scent: towels and sheets, pillows and blankets. He had to find something. It would be here somewhere.

He got to his feet and burst into the house, racing up the stairs as fast as his feet would carry him. But there was nothing there. Charred wood and broken glass littered the floor. It was filthy and dusty and Stiles screamed for Derek. The wind howled outside and shook the trees. He could see them through the holes in the roof in the room he occupied. He could also hear the creak of the stair as the Void version of himself crept up to the landing.

“There’s nothing here, Stiles. Just you and me. Come out, come out wherever you are,” he heard it sing. He could see it in his mind’s eye drumming its fingertips along the banister as it drummed its fingers along the hilt of the sword it plunged into Scott’s guts. He could see its twisted face in flashes like lightning strikes, all deep eye circles and terrible smirk. He shook his head to clear it and looked up to the trees swaying in the wind. One of the shards of wood had something on it: Derek’s shirt.

He got a foothold on the window and jumped for a beam, grasping tightly as splinters bit at his fingers. The monster was getting closer; he could feel it. He had to hurry.

“What’s the rush, Stiles?” asked his Void self. “After all we have a lifetime together, you and I.”

He pulled himself up, his arms aching with the effort, the edge of the beam digging into the base of his ribcage as he rested his weight before swinging his leg up and over. He stood on the beam and watched with horror as the thing with his face came into the room. It was far below him, but looked for all the world like a viper who had treed a cat. He edged along the beam, arms outspread and grasped the broken charred wood of the ceiling. A piece snapped off in his hand and he nearly fell. He let the piece drop and saw the Nogitsune gently side step it saying: “Careful there. Don’t want to hurt ourself, now do we?”

“You’re not me!” he said, and he scrambled for purchase along the weakened portion of the roof.

A few more burnt pieces fell and once again the monster side stepped them, the sick bemused grin never leaving his face. “I’ve already told you: we are the same person, Stiles. I am you; you are me.”

“You are nothing like me,” said Stiles.

“Prove it,” said Not-Stiles. Stiles was quiet. “That’s right. You can’t. I win.”

Stiles hauled himself to the roof and stepped carefully along the shingles as he made his way toward the gray shirt with the black lettering. His sanity lay inside the fibers of that cloth and he would do anything to get to it - even if it meant dying in a dream fighting himself. “You win nothing, you bastard.”

He reached out and grasped for the shirt which went skittering away in the breeze, falling to the forest floor unseen.

“Oh, I think you’ll find that I have,” said the creature. It stood on the roof with Stiles, the wind crying all around them.

Stiles looked down the two storey drop. He was already on the edge. It would be nothing to tip backward into the emptiness. At least then he might get some rest.

His heels were on the lip of the roof. He could feel the cut of the pressure through his shoes. “I am not going to let you have my sanity.”

The demon grinned. “I wouldn’t dream of taking it. Matter of fact, I think you’re giving it up pretty nicely if you’re considering doing what I know you’re considering doing.”

Stiles looked down again. “Sometimes the insane route is the only route to sanity.”

They stood there for a minute staring each other down until the creature rolled his eyes and threw his hands up in exasperation. “So do it already! What? You can’t even kill yourself in a dream, Stiles? Are you really that weak?” Stiles’ breathing became rapid as the creature continued to speak: “Do you want some help?” It stepped closer. Stiles slid his shoes even further backward, if only by an inch. He could feel the edge of the roof on the arch of his foot. Gravity sang to him like a siren.

“You are truly so very weak, Stiles Stilinski. You must be such a disappointment to your mother.” The monster reached a hand out to _push_ …


	5. Chapter 5

_Falling… backward flying… gripped in a hold… head flung backward… motion arrested._

_The smell of earth… of wood… of warmth… Derek._

“Stiles!” he called. He could hear Derek and he pulled himself to the surface and gasped awake. He was cold. He was wet. He was held in Derek’s powerful arms. There was a light and an unknown voice called out: “Is he alright?”

“Yes, sir,” Derek called back. The light was from a flashlight below them.

“What the-? Where the hell am I?” Stiles asked, confused.

“You walked four blocks to a stranger’s house, got in their pool, nearly drowned until I pulled you out. Then you ran another four blocks to another stranger’s house, climbed to the roof, and tried to throw yourself off,” said Derek. His voice was heated; he was angry. “You were talking to yourself the whole time too.”

“I- I was?” asked Stiles. “I did?”

“Yeah,” said Derek. He looked exhausted. “I thought you said you had a handle on this.”

“I- did. I do!” said Stiles. He shivered.

Derek shook his head. “Come with me, you idiot.”

The both made their way down the same way Stiles had gotten up: a convenient trellis that led to an overhang of the roof. Derek led and, with apologies to the homeowner from them both, wrapped Stiles in his coat and led him home. As they climbed the stair, Stiles couldn’t hold onto himself any longer; he began to tremble and collapse and cry and _oh god why?_

Derek sat him down on the stairs and held him until the shaking sobs lessened. Stiles didn’t say a word. Derek’s strong arms felt so good around him. For the first time in a long time he felt safe, at peace. He curled into Derek’s heat as sobs were replaced with sniffles and the occasional whimper. Firm solid hands rubbed down his ribs as he tucked his head low under Derek’s chin. He couldn’t take it anymore. “Stay with me, Der,” he whispered, knowing full well that the werewolf could hear him as clear as day.

“Sure,” said Derek.

“And try not to be angry,” said Stiles.

Derek sighed. “I’m not really angry, Stiles. Just… worried.”

“And don’t gloat,” said Stiles.

“Gloat?”

Stiles sighed and pulled his head back. “I had your t-shirt for like, two weeks. It helped. You were right.” Stiles had never felt so miserable admitting the truth before. He couldn’t even meet Derek’s eyes. His sarcasm wasn’t even coming to him here; the evil he was experiencing every time he closed his eyes was soul-sucking - the level of horror that went along with it was overwhelming - his usual level of snark couldn’t hope to save him. He couldn’t fight his own mind. He was ill-equipped. He was defenseless and he knew, as he was speaking these words to Derek, he was showing his neck to the wolf; he was belly up and submissive to him. And he hated every second that passed as he said: “I need you, Derek. I can’t sleep. You ground me somehow. I- I can’t do this alone. I can’t- I want-” He turned his tear-filled eyes to Derek, pleading: “Please.”

Derek was wide-eyed and staring at Stiles when he finally got up enough courage to look at him face-to-face. Blinking, he quickly recovered. “Let’s get you to bed, Stiles.”

Derek lifted him up in a fireman’s carry and walked to his bedroom, depositing Stiles onto the bed’s edge. Following Stiles’ direction, he went to the dresser and pulled out some sweatpants and a clean t-shirt to replace his wet clothes, tossed them on the bed and withdrew to the hallway to allow Stiles to dress in peace. Stiles was under the covers when he returned. He removed his shoes, the contents of his pockets, and his belt and lay above the covers next to Stiles. He wrapped a protective arm around the boy and settled his head into the pillow. “Goodnight, Stiles,” he murmured, before drifting off himself.

Stiles lay there listening to the sounds of the night around them. Even here, with the genuine article in his bed with him, he couldn’t help but be hesitant about falling asleep. What if he still sleepwalked? What if Derek didn’t wake up in time to stop him from leaving the house? What if he just decided to take a header out of his own bedroom window? Or cut himself with some scissors? He could still see the scissors stuck in his mattress, stabbed there like the pinprick of a massive voodoo doll, sinister, final.

He was so weak. So needy. It killed him. He heard Peter’s words from so long ago again in his head: “Would you like me to draw you a picture? That first night in the woods, I took Scott because I needed a new pack. It could’ve easily been you. You’d be every bit as powerful as him. No more standing by his side, watching him become stronger and quicker, more popular, watching him get the girl. You’d be equals. Maybe more. Yes or no?”

“Stop it, Stiles,” said Derek. “Your heartbeat increased just now. You’re thinking bad things. Stop.” He gave Stiles a small squeeze.

Stiles squeezed his eyes shut. “I can’t,” he said. A shiver went through him. He recalled Peter clutching his wrist. He also remembered the thrill of his offer: “Do you want the bite?” He remembered wanting it; wanting it so badly his blood quickened and his head spun. He had to ask Peter to repeat himself. What if he had taken the bite? The Nogitsune would have never taken him. It would never have been able to. He would have been saved from this hell.

He felt himself shake with sobs.

“Turn around,” said Derek.

“I can’t- I can’t sleep if I’m not on my right,” he said feebly.

“You can roll back once you’ve calmed down,” said Derek. “Just face me for a few minutes. It will help.”

Stiles turned and faced Derek, the werewolf wrapping both his arms around Stiles’ back, pulling him along the hard line of his body. Stiles tucked his head under Derek’s chin and inhaled his scent. Instantly, he felt himself relax. Derek rubbed his hands over Stiles’ back soothingly and was rewarded with the slowing of his heartbeat and a contented sigh. Reflexively he kissed the top of his head, nuzzling his nose into his hair. “Hush now, Stiles. It’s all going to be okay.”

“I hate being this weak.”

Derek tilted his chin upward with a finger. “For God’s sake, you’re not weak, Stiles. You’re braver than most and twice as smart. Stop it.”

“I can’t stop it, Derek,” said Stiles. “I can’t outsmart the thing inside me. It’s right: I want the power of it. It’s the darker side of me. The thing that sits in the shadows and stalks me and when I’m not looking, when I’m most vulnerable, when I’m asleep - it strikes and it goes for the throat every time. I can’t shake it.”

Derek wanted to kiss him on the mouth to pull Stiles out of his self-pity. He restrained himself, not knowing why his heart wanted something so inappropriate so badly. Instead, he found himself tracing a thumb along Stiles’ jawline.

“Wha- What the-?”

Derek pulled his hand away and took a breath. “Just-” He was going to tell him to shut up and go to sleep; the selfishness of the words cut him short. He sighed instead. “Stiles… you can’t do it alone. That’s what you said, right?”

“Yeah,” he admitted. “I hate it so fucking much, Der. I-”

“Okay, so what is so awful about working as a team to do anything?” asked Derek. “Don’t you know that we’re pack?”

“I do, but this is not your fight. It’s-”

“But we’re pack,” said Derek.

“I know. You keep saying that.”

Derek sighed. “The word “pack” means more than “family” or “friends”. It also means “team”, “army”, “legion”, and in every circumstance, a pack works as one. We team together to take down common enemies all the time, Stiles. Why should this be different?”

“But it’s in my head, Der,” said Stiles. “How do I get help for something that’s in my mind?”

“You can’t put us in your head too?”

“The Nogitsune won’t let me have your shirt, Derek. Why would it let all of you in?”

“Because we’re pack,” said Derek his mouth forming a thin line of determination. “And you are pack. One and the same. We won’t give it a choice.”

Stiles blinked at him. “But how?”

“That would be up to you, Stiles,” said Derek. “You’re smart; now you’ve got to be creative.”

 

~080~

 

He nuzzled into his chest and wrapped his arms tightly around him. There was another light kiss to his head and he smiled to himself. But the smile soon vanished as he found the smell was… off. It was foetid, rank. He pulled his head up and away only to find himself wrapped around the mummified body of the Nogitsune, silver maw flashing pin-like teeth.

His leap away from the bed was immediate. His exit was so violent that he backed into his Void self who turned him around and smiled with that same sick grin that made Stiles’ stomach churn. “Going somewhere, Stiles?”

“Get the fuck away from me!” said Stiles. He pulled away, hurtling into his desk at the opposite end of the room. The desk thudded against the wall with his momentum, knocking more than a few things to the floor. “You just stay the fuck away!”

The mummy version had disappeared from the room. Only the Not-Stiles remained. It rolled its eyes and said: “We’ve been over this, Stiles. We can’t do that. We are the same, you and I. And let’s face it: you can’t run from yourself.”

“There’s more to me than just you,” said Stiles. The words surprised him. He didn’t know why the thought had occurred to him other than it felt natural to say. The Nogitsune made no remark. It tried to open its mouth but choked on the words.

Stiles took his chance. He pressed his eyes closed and shifted the scene to somewhere that meant teamwork, confrontation, war: the lacrosse field.

They faced one another at the midline in the dark, floodlights giving the field an eerie washed-out color. The monster nodded approvingly. “A field of battle. Nice choice, Stiles. Too bad you usually warm the bench at these games.”

“There’s something you’re forgetting, asswipe,” said Stiles. The Nogitsune narrowed his eyes at him. “In this battle, I’ve got an army.”

First there was Derek, wolfed out and baring his claws and fangs. He let out a roar that made the ground tremble. Even in Stiles’ dreams Derek had a flair for the dramatic.

Next there came Scott, vicious, eyes hell red and practically salivating for the kill. He was quickly followed by a sword-wielding Kira, eyes flashing blue electric fire. Isaac, Malia, Lydia, Ethan, even Chris Argent. They all appeared one by one, flanking him to either side, all ready to do battle, all ready to kill a Nogitsune by any means necessary.

Stiles squeezed his hands around the hilt of his bat and raised it to lean against one shoulder as he regarded the monster. “Here’s the thing, you bastard. We’re coming for you. Right here, right now.”

“And all I have to do is take you down, Stiles,” said the monster. He raised a hand and everyone who stood to either side of him was thrown back against the ground. Stiles looked around incredulous. “Never doubt that this is just between you and I, Stiles.”

Everyone got back on their feet and Stiles’ mind raced. This was a dream; he knew it. And yet this thing was more powerful than he was. But if they were the same person (the thought made Stiles shiver), he couldn’t let it win. How could he become stronger if he was alone even in his own mind?

Pack means more than family, Stiles…

A pack works as one…

_A pack works as one…_

Ethan, Erica, and Boyd were there among the crowd. Allison grinned at him. “Go for it, Stiles.”

“You’ve got this, Stiles,” said Lydia. “You’re smarter than this thing. More powerful than you will ever realize.”

He had never heard Lyds talk like that about him before, but it gave him heart and he nodded at her, the idea still forming on the edges of his mind

“Dude, we’re right here,” said Scott.

“We’re pack,” Derek reminded him.

And as the idea grew and formed and coalesced - it happened.

Each member of the pack stepped _inside_ him.

One by one, member by member, they joined his consciousness until he was filled with their power, their rage, their gifts. In the same instance he was a werewolf and a were-coyote and a banshee and a hunter and kitsune. He knew his eyes glowed a blended purple from the Alpha red and the Beta blue. He held Kira’s sword in one hand and his bat in the other and he felt the fangs drop and the claws come out and the rage of the beasts trapped within yearning to get free; they snapped at the edges of his consciousness and pulled against the center of him, willing him to set them on the monster who stood before him.

He regarded the Nogitsune. It seemed shocked at the development. A thrill went through all the versions of Stiles, coursing through his veins and coming out of his throat in a multi-voiced cry of havoc and destruction: _ **“I AM PACK!”**_

He lunged.

 

~080~

 

Stiles awoke. In the moonlit darkness his brain realized that he was safe in his own room. He hadn’t sleepwalked. Stiles sighed with relief and smoothed a hand over his sweat-dappled face.

“Did you beat it?” asked Derek. He sat in a corner of his bedroom opposite the bed, arms crossed, eyes steady.

Stiles jumped at first but recovered quickly. “Yeah,” he said, “I think so.”

“Good,” said Derek. He stood and went to the door.

“Where are you going?”

“Only one way to test the theory,” he said. “I’ll be downstairs on the couch.”

The werewolf was almost out the door when Stiles stopped him. Derek turned and waited. “Thanks,” said Stiles.

Derek shrugged and gave him a small smile. “We’re pack, Stiles. This is how this works.” He closed the door gently behind him.

Stiles stared at the ceiling and listened to the house settle. Somewhere below him a werewolf was listening to his heartbeat and Stiles wished he could make it beat out a “thank you” over and over in Morse code. Somewhere in the night a sense of truly belonging to the pack came to him. The friends he had weren’t a cover to hide behind, but a tool to be used, a weapon to wield. And what he had to give to them was all theirs; whatever they needed that he could give, he would. He sighed contentedly and rolled over onto his side. The oblivion of normal sleep came over him in an instant.

 

~080~

 

He took a breath and wiped the sunlight away from his eyes, turning his head on the pillow to avoid its glow. He could hear birds chirping. Somewhere he could smell coffee and… was that bacon?

“Stiles?” asked Derek.

He blinked awake. Somewhere in his throat Stiles unstuck a “Yeah?”

“Morning,” said Derek.

“G’morning,” replied Stiles, turning over to face his friend. He let out a yawn that nearly split his face in two.

“I probably should have let you sleep in longer,” said Derek. He was holding a mug and a plate. “Hungry?”

“You made me breakfast?”

“No,” said Derek, the edges of his patience fraying, “your dad did. And he said for you to get up because you promised to rake leaves in the backyard today.”

Stiles groaned. “I was hoping he forgot.”

“If I know anything about parents, it’s that they never forget household chores.”

“No shit,” said Stiles. “The old man can’t remember where he put his keys half the time, but housework? The man turns into an elephant. And I thought I raked just a few weeks ago! I mean, what the hell? One stray leaf in the yard and all of a sudden we have to man the battle stations!” Stiles ripped into some jelly and toast Derek handed him. Derek watched him with a mixture of bemusement and open affection.

Stiles sipped at the coffee he was given and remarked: “You remember how I like my coffee?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” asked Derek. “You’re probably the only person in the world I know of that flavors sugar with coffee.” Derek watched him take a few more sips. “You know that’s probably not good to have too much of with your ADD meds.”

Stiles shrugged. “I only drink it when I’ve got an early morning and I have to function,” he said. “Besides, you’re the one who brought it to me.”

“True,” said Derek.

“By the way, Der,” asked Stiles. “Why did you bring me breakfast? I mean, I could have gone downstairs and got my own stuff.”

“I know,” said Derek, shrugging. “But considering all that you’ve been through, I thought that… for a reward conquering the nightmares… you know.” Derek sat on the edge of his bed and set a hand on Stiles’ knee.

Stiles remained still, coffee in one hand, toast in the other as he watched Derek’s hand circle his kneecap in a slow lingering motion. He didn’t do anything about it; he just watched and tried to wrap his brain around this tender version of Derek Hale. He wanted to ask him why he was doing that. He wanted to ask him why he was being so damn caring at all, but he thought Derek would just tell him it was a pack thing. But this wasn’t a pack thing. This was definitely a mate thing. And it was weird. But he didn't want to embarrass Derek. He’d probably bolt.

Stiles really didn’t want to be rude; his heart told him he shouldn’t. But finally, his mouth circumvented his heart and he asked the only thing he could think of that wouldn’t be completely obvious: “You okay, dude?”

Derek looked up, surprised. “Yeah. Why?”

“It’s just-” said Stiles. He pointed at his knee with the pinky finger of the toast-filled hand.

Derek looked down at his hand as if it had done something without his permission. “Sorry,” he said and stood up.

“Don’t run,” Stiles blurted.

“I’m not,” said Derek. “I just- I have things to do… at the loft.”

“Derek,” said Stiles. He gave him an understanding look. “It’s cool, man.”

“No,” said Derek, “it’s kind of not. In fact, I’m sure your father would agree that it’s sort of illegal.”

“Jesus, Der,” said Stiles, sitting up a little straighter in bed. “It’s um… It’s like that, huh?”

“Pretty much,” said Derek, studying his shoes.

“Okay.”

“Yeah.”

The silence stretched between them until Derek said: “I’ll see you,” and disappeared out the door.


	6. Chapter 6

It was almost a year later when Derek and Stiles re-visited his post-Nogitsune recovery strategy. So much time had gone by and so much more had happened. Derek getting de-aged brought it back for him. Of course, Stiles didn’t have the heart to make a move on a kid that didn’t have Derek’s memory. It wasn’t fair. And then there was Braeden.

Stiles sat at his kitchen table and slowly stirred his cereal. It was dark, almost midnight, and he couldn’t sleep. Derek and Braeden were good together; he knew it. It wasn’t painful to see them together but it was discouraging. Ever since his eighteenth birthday had come and gone, he had held out some hope. But Braeden was perfect. She taught him how to be strong again. She guided him back into self-confidence much better than Stiles ever could. What would he have tried to do? Cure him with sarcasm and witty repartee? Stiles sighed heavily and scooped a spoonful of soggy cereal in his mouth.

There was a small knock at the front door. Stiles looked up in its direction. It was so softly done, he thought it was his imagination until he heard it again. Slowly he got up, wishing he had his baseball bat with him. He stalked to the door, his bare feet practically noiseless on the hardwood floor. He stopped just short of taking the handle in hand when the knock came again.

He made a face, internally kicking himself for his cowardice. He grabbed the handle and opened it suddenly. Derek was walking away and had reached the bottom of the steps when he turned into the porch light.

“Derek?” asked Stiles. “What are you doing here so late?”

“I just wanted to talk to you,” he said.

“You could have just texted me.”

Derek came up the steps. “I know. But texting isn’t talking.” He stepped within a few feet of Stiles, his shoes not crossing the threshold.

“So come in and talk,” said Stiles, gesturing for him to enter.

Derek walked past him and sat upon the couch. Stiles sat next to him. “Dad’s not home. He’s got late shift. How did you know I’d be up?”

“I didn’t,” Derek confessed.

“And you were knocking so softly so as not to wake me?” asked Stiles. He didn’t miss the blush spread across Derek’s cheeks.

“I wasn’t sure-” began Derek. “I wanted to talk about your time after the Nogitsune left your body and you were struggling with nightmares. I wasn’t sure you wanted to talk about it. You were pretty upset at the time.”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Because I’m the one having the nightmares now,” admitted Derek.

“What do you mean? Why didn’t you ask me sooner?” asked Stiles.

“I was like you: I wanted to see if I could handle it alone.”

“And Braeden?”

Derek closed his eyes and sighed. “She just keeps telling me to get over it.”

“Sensitive,” snarked Stiles. “Practically compassionate.”

Derek shrugged. “She’s not used to stuff like this. And… honestly? Neither am I.”

“So you need my help?” asked Stiles. “Or do you just need one of my t-shirts?” Derek glared at him flatly until Stiles’ smile faded and he cleared his throat nervously. “So um… how can I help you?”

“I’m… practically normal,” said Derek.

“Yeah? So?”

“So, Stiles, I’ve never been normal. I was born a werewolf, remember?”

“Right,” said Stiles. “So this whole “being a real boy” thing has you freaked?”

Derek let his head drop back against the couch and sighed again. “Pretty much.”

“And you’re having nightmares about not being strong enough?” asked Stiles.

“Yep.”

“And you can’t shake that helpless feeling no matter what you do because it’s not only in the dream, it’s also happening in real life?”

“You’ve got it.”

“And Braeden just told you to rub some dirt on it and walk it off?” Stiles could feel his anger rising.

“Let’s not make her the enemy here, Stiles.”

“Well she’s not exactly the hero, is she?”

“She’s taught me a lot, actually.”

“Oh sure, about gun play and all that. Funny, no one has taught me anything like that,” said Stiles. “I’ve been the normal one forever.”

Derek picked his head up. “You want a gun? Are you kidding me? There is no way anyone should ever give you a gun, you spaz.”

“Fair point,” said Stiles, “but no one has ever even offered. So there’s me still going into battle against all kinds of crap with only a baseball bat.”

“Yeah… how do you do that anyway?”

“What choice do I have?! I mean, Braeden’s a trained fighter, so’s Mr. Argent. Everyone else who’s a normal human - including my dad - is trained in some way. I’m the only one left out. So… I do what I can.”

“Why?” asked Derek. “Why not just hang back and let the others handle the heavy lifting?”

Stiles stared at Derek. “Because it’s what we do. We’re pack. You taught me that.” Derek lost himself in a thought, blinking. Stiles added: “You want to know how I do it? How I keep fighting? It’s because that’s what we do, Der. That’s what a pack does: it works as a team.”

“So what do you recommend I do?”

“I recommend that you lean on us during the day: train with Braeden, help us figure out how to help you get your wolfiness back. And during the night, well… I can give you one of my t-shirts but Braeden might object,” said Stiles.

Derek chuckled. “If Braeden was that attached to me, she’d have tracked me down by now.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” said Derek, “that I’m exhausted and I know your bed’s really comfortable and I can’t sleep lately and I really need to sleep, Stiles.”

Stiles knew that feeling all too well. He sighed. It was late. He should give sleeping another try himself. “Yeah, okay, sourwolf. But don’t steal all the covers. And so help me, if you drool on me all bets are off.“

 

~080~

 

“I told you,” said Stiles, bunching up the pillow, “I need to sleep on my right.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to fidget all the damn time,” said Derek who was seconds away from elbowing Stiles in the back to keep him from jostling him right out of the bed. He stared at the ceiling and let out a breath. “And what kid your size has anything less than a queen size bed, huh?”

“Oh well excuse the hell out of me, mister “I can afford anything I want because I own a building”; not everyone has your cash flow, dude.”

Derek winced. “Sorry, Stiles. Hey, I can buy you-”

“No charity, thanks,” said Stiles.

“How in hell did you win against your nightmares with that amount of pride?”

Derek waited as Stiles went curiously silent. “Stiles?”

“I told you: we’re pack.”

“Yeah,” said Derek, “I know. Which is why I would like to buy you a bigger bed.”

“That’s different,” said Stiles. “That’s everyday shit. The nightmares, the Nogitsune, that was supernatural. And for the supernatural, you need the pack.”

“So what happens now?” asked Derek, pushing the issue of Stiles’ bed aside.

“For your issue?” asked Stiles.

“Yeah,” said Derek. “What do I do?”

“Just take control of the dream,” said Stiles. “Put us all in there. Take our power to use. I imagined all of you stepping inside me. And then I was able to defeat the Nogitsune.”

“Wow,” said Derek, clearly impressed.

“Hey, it’s a dream. You can do almost anything.”

“True,” said Derek. “I’ll try that. Thanks.”

“No problem,” said Stiles, turning and fidgeting again.

Derek growled and turned toward him, spooning him from behind and wrapping a muscular arm around Stiles’ waist. “Stop moving around, damn it.”

Stiles felt himself blush in the dark. His breath hitched. He hadn’t felt this way since the last time he and Derek shared his bed. His thoughts instantly shot to Derek on top of him, pressing into him…

Stiles leapt up from Derek’s hold, knowing his sweatpants wouldn’t hide his semi-erection. “Whoa there, guy!”

Derek groaned. “What is your problem now, Stiles?”

“N-nothing,” said Stiles, settling back just a bit. “It’s just- you know- a little close in here.”

“Like I said: bigger bed.”

“No. It’s not that. It’s-” Stiles waved his hands frantically around both their midsections.

“What?”

Stiles sighed and ran a hand down his face in exasperation. “It’s been a while, dude. You know what I mean?”

“Are you telling me that me spooning you is making you horny?”

Stiles looked at him flatly.

“What?” said Derek, barely restraining an urge to laugh. “Oh come on, man. Just lie down and go to sleep.”

Stiles wasn’t finished. “Why are you here, Derek? Because, you know, most people when they can’t sleep take a sleeping pill or drink some warm milk. But not you. No, you’ve got to seek me out in the middle of the night for advice? Really?”

“Stiles, I-”

“Why are you here, Derek?”

Derek sighed. “Because things between Braeden and I were never particularly warm and fuzzy, you know? We’re not really like that as people. But since the nightmares, things between us have cooled considerably,” admitted Derek. “And I need something… I don’t know.” Derek sat up. “If you want me to go, I’ll go. I’ll just-”

“No, man,” said Stiles, sitting up beside him. “No, hey, listen: I didn’t mean-”

“No, it’s fine,” said Derek. “You told me what to do. I can do that. It’ll be fine. I’ll be alright.”

Stiles brought a hand to Derek’s face, turning his head toward him. “Cut the shit, Der. You want to stay? Stay.”

Derek closed his eyes and didn’t move for almost a minute. Stiles watched him carefully and was relieved when he said: “I want to kiss you, Stiles,” he said softly, feeling the blush spread across his cheeks as he saw Stiles’ eyes widen in surprise. “I’ve wanted to for a while.”

Stiles’ voice was a whisper in the dark. “For a while now.” It wasn’t a question, but Derek nodded all the same.

“Please?” asked Derek. He held his breath. Stiles could freak out and ruin the moment. He could say no. Derek prayed that he wouldn’t say no.

Stiles was stunned. Here was the moment he had been waiting for, but he was hesitating. Why was he hesitating? _Say something, Stiles! Don’t say anything stupid, but say something. He’s waiting!_

Instead, Stiles’ mouth surprised them both: “What? You can’t ask me out like a normal guy?” Stiles cringed internally. Of course his knee-jerk reaction to an emotionally delicate situation would be snark. Stiles was ready to crawl into a hole.

Derek blinked at him before giving him the biggest grin. “I’ll buy you breakfast. Deal?”

Stiles remembered to breathe and weighed his offer for all of three seconds. “Deal.”

Their first kiss was way better than Stiles had imagined; Derek was more tender than he expected. There was a deep sensuality to his touch and a restrained strength that belied a more aggressive desire underneath. He could feel through the kiss that Derek wanted him, hungered for him, but held back because he probably didn’t want to spook him. He knew that in his werewolf days, Derek could hold him up against the wall without breaking a sweat. But feeling what he was feeling at that moment, Stiles was certain that Derek could do it even without his werewolf powers.

Inside him somewhere he felt something give way, melt into a pool of longing. He couldn’t resist moving his hands along Derek’s arms and tilting his head further to deepen the kiss. Derek wrapped his arms around Stiles and fell into him, pressing both of them to the mattress. The kiss broke and they swam in the endorphins and dopamine as they breathed one another’s air.

“Is this okay, Stiles?” asked Derek.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” asked Stiles. “This is amazing! More? Please?”

Derek threw him a smirk and kissed him again, lining up his body against his, letting his hands wander down his sides and back up, cradling his shoulders, and thoroughly enjoying the feel of Stiles Stilinski underneath him. He trailed kisses along his jawline and carded a hand through his hair only to hear Stiles moan and feel his body shudder. Derek’s cock hardened at the sound and feel of him; he felt the old wolf inside awaken; it was weak, but still hungry.

The press of Derek on top of him was almost too much for Stiles to process. He knew that he would be heavy; certainly, that was no great leap in speculation. But what he hadn’t anticipated was the heat and the scent and the solidity of him. His hands found the small of Derek’s back under his t-shirt and slid up either side of his spine, slowly exploring this territory that he thought was once forbidden to him. His flesh was warm under his touch and he could feel the slight lift of the skin around the triskelion tattoo. It fascinated him almost as much as the kiss.

Stiles had kissed people before, of course, but only females. Unless you count Sam Whittaker that one time at summer camp, but who counts a two-second press of lips at the age of eight? This was a different story entirely.

Where the females were soft, their skin delicate - even Malia with her wild nature was creamy smooth and cherry-flavored - Derek was mint and musk and strength. The scrape of his beard contrasted greatly with the velvet of his tongue, each dip and flick of it urging Stiles’ cock further and further toward full attention. Even the sound of their kissing was different: deeper, wetter, more passionate. It was seriously the best kiss he had ever had.

Derek moved his mouth back to Stiles’ jawline and it was only then that Stiles realized he had stopped breathing. He let it go in a slow moan and heard Derek growl in response.

It wasn’t easy taking his time with Stiles. He had known his feelings for him were strong and had gained momentum since their first meeting on the edge of the preserve. And when he had come to him with his trouble about needing a place to sleep after the Nogitsune left him with debilitating nightmares, it was tempting just to give in to his basic nature and desires; he had sensed Stiles’ attraction over the years. It would have been nothing to make a move on him then - except it would have been very illegal. Derek remembered that day Stiles came and spent that first night tossing and turning and screaming… and all the while, Derek battled with himself to run down the hall, bust the door down, and just hold him until the nightmare stopped.

But Stiles won his battle. He was finally here and wriggling underneath him: healthy, willing, legal, and moaning lasciviously.

Derek slid his down hands over Stiles’ shirt and underneath the hem. Pulling away out of a kiss, he rested back on his knees. Warm hands slid the cloth of Stiles’ shirt upward and he followed it with his nose, scenting him, tempted to lick but holding back from even that as he took in the smell of Stiles beneath the fabric softener and soap, the sweet smell of autumn leaves and warm honey. It was an earthy cloying smell and it made Derek’s inner wolf calm, happy, and contented.

Stiles’ cool fingertips were in his hair, Stiles’ warm skin a hairs-breadth away from his lips, and Derek couldn’t believe that after all this time, Stiles was his.

“You were so worth the wait, Stiles,” he said before kissing him again, tasting his warm wine flavor.

“Was I?”

Derek nodded, his mouth centimeters from Stiles’ lips, tempting him to stop his chatter with every syllable he uttered.

“You’ve seriously wanted me this whole time? I mean, I did say that you did, but I wasn’t too sure…”

Again, Derek nodded, his gaze piercing in its focus on his skin and eyes, mouth and cheekbones.

Stiles felt his tongue thick in his mouth as he asked: “You want to fuck me, don’t you?”

The corner of Derek’s mouth raised almost imperceptibly and he shook his head and locked eyes on Stiles’.

“No?”

“I want to claim you.”

Stiles swallowed hard: “Fuck.”


	7. Chapter 7

Derek found himself treasuring any sound Stiles made. He lived for the moments he could make him moan low or when his breath would catch in his throat, cutting off the moan half way. But the sound he valued above all, the one he wasn’t expecting, was the moment Stiles started cursing in Polish.

He never knew that Stiles spoke any other language, not that his grasp of English was stellar, but it fascinated Derek to know that he was at least a little bilingual.

“ _Pieprz mnie_!” Stiles cried as Derek licked the underside of his balls.

Derek pulled his head up. “What?”

“Means “fuck me” in Polish. Just keep going, Der. Please!” Stiles wriggled and made a grab for Derek’s head to push him back to his task.

Derek resisted. “You speak Polish?”

“Dude! Stilinski? Really?” said Stiles. “And you’re interrupting the most mind-blowing sex for a discussion about languages? I speak a little Spanish too, if that matters, putita. Can we just get to the part where you put your mouth back on me, please?”

Derek narrowed his eyes at him and stood up on his knees. He removed his shirt slowly, watching Stiles take the look of him in as he tossed it aside. “You really want me to rush this, Stilinski?”

Stiles was cowed and turned on instantly. “Not- not if you don’t want to,” he said sheepishly, at once stunned at the perfection before his eyes and completely intimidated by it.

“Do it again,” said Derek, a wicked glint in his eye.

“Do what?”

“Say something in Polish. I like it.”

“ _Pieprz mnie, dziwko_ ,” said Stiles, his voice low and husky.

“Fuck me, what?”

“Bitch.”

Derek laughed and collapsed onto Stiles, kissing him thoroughly, sliding his hands up into his hair and grasping, tilting his head back to expose Stiles’ throat. Derek broke the kiss sloppily and rubbed his stubble along the tender skin of his throat in a primal urge to mix his scent with Stiles’. He pressed the whole of him against the lithe body beneath him and relished Stiles’ cool fingertips skating over his skin, down his spine and underneath his waistband, the whole of his hands disappearing beneath the material and grabbing Derek’s ass with wiry strength.

Derek bit gently into the skin beneath his collarbone and ground his hips into Stiles. “I want to mark you all over, Stiles. I want to remind you every time you look in the mirror that you are mine.” His breath hovered over his mark, spreading goosebumps over Stiles’ skin as he spoke. There was a reverence to his speech: “But I want this - what we have here - to be ours; I want it to work both ways. I want you to own me too.” He licked at the mark and sucked at it, deepening the bruise.

Stiles squirmed a bit and cried out but as Derek met his gaze he asked: “And since you’ve gotten all human-y, I can mark you too, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Derek smiled at him, with a fascinated look. “I suppose you can.”

“Cool.”

Derek nodded. “Here’s how I see it: by letting me mark you, it shows you’ve opened yourself up to me, allowed me in. And that works both ways for the marks you leave on me. It becomes a bond we share. A secret that only we know.” He slid down his torso and left another mark against the side of his ribs.

Stiles dragged his fingernails over Derek’s skin and grinned at the satisfying red trails left behind. “Damn, Der,” he managed. He was suddenly swept up in a wave of passion and grabbed Derek’s hair, pulling his head up and away. “My turn,” he growled and sunk his teeth into Derek’s shoulder, biting down hard enough to leave his own mark.

“Yes, Stiles,” moaned Derek. “So good.” He licked up Stiles’ neck tenderly as Stiles continued to suck and lick at his own claim on Derek’s body.

Derek lifted Stiles’ arm and snuffled his nose into the thatch of hair at his armpit. He nibbled the skin around it and took in the scent, memorizing it. He moved his mouth down Stiles’ ribs, leaving a trail of kisses in his wake as he met Stiles’ hipbone and bit again, sucking and licking his mark into him once more. Instantly, more Polish came to his ears: “ _Pieprz mnie_ , Derek. _Całuj mnie wszędzie_.”

“Fuck yeah, Stiles,” said Derek and licked the flat of his tongue up the underside of Stiles’ hard cock.

“ _Jezu, tak_!” cried Stiles and he arched his back in the most spectacular way.

Derek took Stiles into his mouth and sucked with fervor, each pull against his cock causing Stiles to become more and more unglued, his limbs more and more loose, his speech more and more unintelligible. Derek inhaled his scent again as his throat relaxed against his prick and he buried his nose in Stiles’ dark hair.

“ _Tak, tak, tak_ …,” Stiles barely managed the three words, his hands skimming over the back of Derek’s head as he deep-throated him time and again.

Derek moved to focus on the tip of his cock, his hand pumping away at the shaft, and Stiles could feel his orgasm building. He knew he would explode soon if Derek kept this up but he didn’t have the presence of mind to form a sentence to tell him. All he seemed to be able to manage was “yes yes yes” in Polish and that wasn’t going to help anyone. He pushed himself, brought his brain out of the swimming haze long enough to say: “Gonna- gonna, Derek. Please.”

Derek pulled off and gave him a gentle tug at the base of his cock. “No, you’re not. Not yet, Stiles.” He sat up and slapped Stiles gently on the side of his ass. “Over.”

“Oh, fuck yeah,” said Stiles as he rolled over and put his ass in the air for Derek.

Instantly, Derek bit him on the ass cheek, marking the skin. Stiles cried out in surprise, breathing heavily as the pain lingered. Derek licked and sucked his mark into him, enjoying the feel of taking what he’s wanted for so very long. He couldn’t help himself: he licked Stiles’ opening eagerly.

“Oh, _Jesu, tak_!” Stiles called again. “Fuck, Der!”

Derek plunged his tongue into him as Stiles relaxed against the pressure of it, his hips thrusting back against the invading tongue, longing to be penetrated deeper. Derek’s passion was obvious: his arms between Stiles’ legs, spreading them wider, hands wrapped around and grabbing at his ass, spreading his cheeks wider; he was eating him out like a man starved. And Stiles supposed he was. After all, how many years had they known each other and legally Derek couldn’t touch him? Stiles would have gone insane if the roles were reversed. He put a hand over one of Derek’s and said: “ _Dobry chłopak_ , Derek. _Kocham cię_.”

Derek came up for air and kissed a trail up Stiles’ spine, unwrapping his arms from about his hips and smoothing his hands up and down his sides. “You got any lube? Condoms?”

Stiles shot out a flailing arm and pulled open the bedside table drawer. He dug around blindly for his little bottle, coming up with it in seconds. His head came up from the pillow in a sudden realization: “No condoms. Fuck!”

“S’okay,” said Derek. He pulled out his wallet and took a condom from one of the pockets. “Braeden. Got me in the habit.”

“Dude, so not cool to mention the girlfriend during an intimate moment such as this,” scolded Stiles.

“As of this moment, Stiles,” said Derek. “She’s not the girlfriend.”

Stiles looked back at him, dumbfounded.

“Seriously,” reassured Derek. “You’re it, man.” He opened his jeans and pulled out his aching cock. Stiles watched with mouth watering as he slid on the condom. “And right now, all I want is to watch you fall apart.”

“Oh, _pieprz mnie_ ,” moaned Stiles as he buried his head into the pillows again. He heard the lube bottle cap snap open and then he felt the press of a warm finger inside of him.

 

~080~

 

If anyone would ask him later about his first time with Derek Hale, Stiles would instantly be at a loss for words. There weren’t enough adjectives in the English or Polish languages to sum up what it was like to have Derek Hale fucking him. He could make a beginning by telling them that he was passionate or sensual, but those words were just the tip of the ice cube that sat on the tip of the iceberg; they were not enough.

The long, slow grind of Derek inside of him, the hiss of pain when he first entered because he thought he was stretched enough but he wasn’t quite because god damn that man has some girth! The slow working of his cock inside him, brushing his prostate here and there with just the right pressure and angle. The hot kisses and even hotter bites Derek would shower upon him as they tromboned slowly, gliding in and out from one another, a sheen of sweat developing over them both, thickening the air. The sound of them moving against one another, flesh sliding, sticking, slapping as their moans filled the room, unabashed, unashamed. The pure giving of themselves to one another was all-encompassing and the world shrunk to that small double bed in that little bedroom in Beacon Hills, California.

The moonlight through the bedroom windows made their skin glow as they moved together. Derek lay against him, his belly along his back, and placed a hand over one of Stiles’, clasping his fingers, interlacing them with his own, as gentle kisses were planted against his neck and ear. “Thank you, Stiles,” he whispered.

“Oh, God, Derek,” said Stiles, craning his neck back for a wet kiss. “Want this forever.”

“Me too,” said Derek, his other hand shot to Stiles’ neck to hold him there, pressing another kiss onto his lips, tongue lapping at his heat.

“Squeeze just a little, Der,” said Stiles. “Want to feel dominated. Come on, _wilku_.”

“ _Wilk-?_ ”

“Means “wolf”,” explained Stiles.

Derek grinned and squeezed Stiles’ throat gently.

The firmness of his grip coupled with the dick in his ass made Stiles come unexpectedly. “Oh! Fuck!” he cried. “Derek! Shit!”

Derek scented his spunk and instantly his rhythm sped up. “You like being dominated, Stiles?”

“Yea- yeah,” said Stiles, his throat still held firmly as Derek pounded into him. “Give me everything you’ve got, _wilku_. Come on!”

Derek put his forehead to Stiles’ shoulder as he pushed himself toward his own orgasm. He came to the crest of it within moments, his balls tightening. “Want you, Stiles. Always have. Always will.”

“You’ve got me, _wilku_. I’m all yours, Derek. Come on. Come on and come for me.” Stiles turned his head slightly and Derek brought up his head to meet his eyes. “Show the world who owns me because _jesteś mój. Należysz do mnie_.”

“Fuck,” Derek cried as he lost his rhythm, his orgasm and Stiles’ final words jangling his concentration and coordination. He came with a cry and as he came down, forehead once again buried in Stiles’ shoulder, he repeated: “Mine, mine, mine… mine… mine… mine.”

 

~080~

 

Derek laid on his back in the moonlight, his breath just slowing, sweat coating his skin. He looked like a god to Stiles. Stiles watched lustily as his chest fell and rose, a lazy smile on his lips. Derek startled him out of his sex-drunk haze with a question.

“What was that last bit you said? Just before I came?” he asked, turning his gaze to Stiles, his eyes reflecting like an animal’s in the dark for a split second.

Stiles’ brain struggled to come up with the answer. “Oh, _jesteś mój_? And _należysz do mnie_?”

“Yeah. Those.”

Stiles smirked, please with himself. “ _Jesteś mój_. You are mine. _Należysz do mnie_. You belong to me.”

Derek smiled at him. “Perfect.” He rolled toward Stiles and put an arm around his chest. “Sleeping now. Here’s to no nightmares about human inadequacy.”

“Dude, there is nothing about you that’s inadequate.” Stiles turned and snuggled down into the werewolf’s embrace.

A hot huff of a laugh was brushed against the nape of Stiles’ neck and Derek kissed the skin in its path. “Goodnight, spaz.”

“Goodnight, sourwolf.”

 

~080~

 

Derek wouldn’t have confessed to it if his life depended on it, but he really did enjoy cuddling with Stiles. Softly, the morning light crept into the room and Derek found himself in bed with a spider monkey; Stiles had flung himself all over the mattress and the werewolf beneath him, limbs sprawling out to all points of the compass. Derek smoothed a hand over his back fondly, enjoying the quiet: a soft breeze crept in under the open window lifting the curtain, Stiles’ soft breathing and slow, calming heartbeat was in his ears along with the call of morning birds. Derek kissed the top of Stiles’ head softly and the man stirred in his sleep, nuzzling into Derek’s neck before pulling his head back, eyes heavy with sleep.

“Der,” he mumbled.

“Morning,” said Derek.

Stiles let his head flop back onto Derek’s chest. He yawned. “Did you sleep okay?”

“Like a baby,” said Derek.

“So the nightmares are, what? Gone forever?” asked Stiles, rubbing his eyes with a fist.

“I don’t know.” Derek stretched as Stiles rolled off of him and re-arranged the covers around them both. “Only way to find out for sure is to sleep away from you and see.” He wrapped an arm around Stiles’ waist and pulled him close. “But I don’t want to do that.”

“You want to sleep with me… for the rest of your life?” Stiles could feel his heart skip a beat.

“I may need to until I’m a werewolf again,” said Derek.

Stiles let that last sentence sink in. “So… if you were to ever become a true werewolf again, this would stop?” Derek didn’t say anything right away and the pause made Stiles nervous. “Not that we have to continue this. I mean, if you didn’t want to, I get it. You need me for now and that’s all and that’s okay-”

“You really think I’d use you like that?” Derek picked up his head to watch Stiles’ expression. “You really think that I’m the kind of guy to just take what I could get from you and then toss you aside? We’re pack, Stiles. That’s bigger than family. It runs deeper than blood.”

“But you just said-”

“I said that I may have to until I’m a werewolf again because my subconscious is being a dick to me right now. It’s not to say that I want to stop once I’m a werewolf again. Matter of fact, I think sleeping with you and fucking you and holding you are the best things ever. Okay? There. I said it.” Derek set his head back against the pillow with a huff. “I want this, Stiles. I want you.”

Stiles jostled the bed as he turned as quickly as he could to face Derek, propping himself up on an elbow. “Are you serious right now?”

Derek smiled gently at Stiles who’s eyes were as big as saucers. He put a hand to the side of his face to calm him. “Yeah, Stiles. I’m serious.” To seal his words, Derek placed his lips to Stiles’ gently before guiding him down to the bed and into his arms. “You mind?”

Stiles’ smile was ear-to-ear. “Not at all, Derek.” He kissed him back. “You still owe me breakfast.”

Derek laughed. “Shut up and kiss me, you spaz.”


End file.
